Welcome to The Prince’s Boy by Cecilia Tan, a tale of a prince and his whipping boy ensnared in a plot of dark erotic magic. Warning: explores themes of dubious consent and situations of sexual jeopardy. NSFW.

A new chapter appears every Wednesday. This week is Chapter Forty-Five: Kenet

45: Kenet

Marksin and I were bent over requisitions and charts the next evening when the general came in.

Marksin set aside his ink. “Tell the general what you have concluded, Page.”

I looked up in surprise. “Concluded?”

“Just a while ago, from your figures.”

Roichal just looked at me expectantly, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Er, well, given the salaries of the officers and the price of feeding the ranks, including the horses and not included the provision of any weapons… Trest cannot afford to lose this war.”

Marksin laughed. “That is not what you said.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. You said ‘Trest cannot afford this war.’”

I blushed, looking down at the parchment in front of me. “Oh. I… I suppose I’ve thought more about it since.”

Roichal’s expression was serious. “Aye, ugly isn’t it? And yet if we invade Frangit, and take what we can, are we any better than brigands?”

My cheeks colored more deeply. “I… I was thinking more along the lines of reparations paid by their crown to ours after their defeat.”

“Ah.” Roichal and Marksin shared a glance. I half-expected one of them to comment on how this was perhaps higher political thinking than an escaped whoreslave could be expected to know, but neither of them said anything beyond that look. Roichal probed further. “But should their crown be allowed to stand after their surrender?”

I must have looked alarmed, for Marksin moved beside me and put a hand on my arm. “Of course!” I stammered. “We are not seriously trying to annex Frangit, are we? I thought we were supposed to be defending against their incursions on our territory and sovereignty.”

Marksin let out a breath. “They claim that we attacked first.”

“Of course they do,” I said. “Every aggressor will play victim in hopes of winning the fight and determining the historical record.” This was something Sergetten had taught me.

Roichal chuckled. “Every aggressor, the armies of Trest included?”

“But we were attacked first, were we not?” I asked, my voice rising.

“That is a very good question,” the general asked, then limped over to the sleeping pallet. Seeing him limp like that drove all thought of politics and justice from my head for a few moments and Marksin and I both hurried over to him. I was already on my knees when I looked up at Marksin, inviting him to help me with just a look. He hesitated only a moment, then joined me on the canvas, pulling the general’s boots off, and rubbing his feet. I soon began to work my way up his bad leg, while Marksin continued to work the knots from the other foot.

I had made my way up to his knee when the general began to speak again. “Can you imagine, Page, a situation in which both nations might claim to have been attacked first?”

“But someone had to actually be first. Unless both attacked at the same time, in different places?”

“No no, it is not so tricky as that,” he said. “Can you tell me what you knew of the war before you came to us?”

The war was not one of the subjects considered seemly at banquet in the castle. Sergetten had taught me much about the history of our neighbor nations, Pellon and Frangit, but had said little about the current war other than a few basics. “I heard that Frangi raiding parties on the orchard towns near the Northern Pass had begun the hostilities years ago. And that diplomacy had failed, and once rebuffed by their ruling council, we had no choice but to go to war.”

“And so, we were the first to send an army to attack the other,” Roichal said, “even if they were the first to do us harm. Both sides think they are in the right. In the end, though, might makes right.”

He put his hand over mine, stilling it against his thigh, but he spoke to the field marshal. “There is something you must do.”

“Sir?” Marksin looked up.

“You should lie with a camp follower in the next few days.”

I was shocked to hear him say this. Marksin, though, was not, given the resigned look on his face.

“It has already been too long for you, Marks,” he said. “And rumors, such as they are, must be quelled.”

Marksin would not meet the general’s eyes as he said, “Yes, Sir,” his voice barely audible.

Roichal put a hand on his hair. “Is it so arduous a task I set before you?”

“No, Sir,” he said, but he did not sound convincing. “If… if you like, I shall go tonight.”

“That would suit me well,” Roichal said. “But you must feed Page first.”

I reached up and touched Marksin’s cheek. “Sir? Could we not wait until after the field general is finished with his… errand?”

Marksin looked at me with pleading hope in his eyes. Roichal sifted my hair with his fingers. “Why do you suggest that, Page?”

“You said I should tell you what I want, isn’t that right, Sir?”

“Yes, that’s right, Page.”

“I… I would like the field general to sleep in the tent with us. I-I want him here.”

Roichal’s other hand combed through the black silk of Marksin’s hair. “And what does the field general want?”

Marksin’s voice was hoarse, as if he could barely force out the words. “I will do as you ask, Sir.”

Roichal pursed his lips, perhaps annoyed at having his question dodged. “Very well. Go seek out the prettiest and brassiest, the one most likely to burnish your reputation. When you are done, return here. Page, you do know that the field marshal will not have much to give you after having given the first seed to a female furrow?”

“I know, Sir,” I said. Apparently there was still no chance of Roichal himself feeding me, but it also appeared that he was not sending Marksin away merely to get me alone.

Marksin kissed me and I felt his gratitude. He knew that I understood what he wanted, even if he could not voice it. Then he got to his feet and said, “Sir, would it be all right if Page would bring me to full length before I go?”

Roichal chuckled. “Nothing like going with sword drawn when looking for a duel,” he said. “Go on, Page. Have a little taste of him.”

I pushed down his trousers and breeches and sucked him until he was so long and hard I was choking on him. Then I did him up again, but the bulge was quite noticeable.

“Perfect,” he declared, then gave a quick salute, and left.

Roichal then bade me order the cook’s boys to bring him hot water for his leg again, and they again came and filled the wooden tub with pitcher after pitcher of heated water. He soaked his leg for a short time, then motioned for me to strip down. He repeated the washing of my skin he’d performed on me once before, going over every inch with a cloth, and saving my milksacks and prick for last.

Then he sat me across his lap, one hand in my hair as he kissed me, the other stroking my cock in a lazy, teasing rhythm. “The field marshal does have something of a reputation among the women,” he said, talking softly to me while arousing me. “One would need to know him exceedingly well to realize that lying with them is a mere charade on his part.”

I could only reply with a muffled moan, hiding my face against the cloth of his shirt as he brought me to the quivering edge of spilling and held me there with his thumb making slick circles around the head of my cock.

“Hm, and what about you, Page? Were you not bespelled, would you bury this I hold in my hand between a woman’s thighs? Would you like to regardless of the spell?”

“But…” I panted. “But…”

“Ah, I know you cannot come without my command. You would surely make a whore feel she failed you somehow if you did not spill. But if you wanted, my dear Page, we could have a girl brought here for you…?”

I shook my head, unable to speak to explain why I did not want to. And even if I could have spoken, I would not have been able to tell him the danger of creating a royal bastard.

“There, there, you know I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t wish to,” he said in a low voice, slowing his stroking such that I could regain my breath. “Except, perhaps, tell me what you wish to hide.”

“Sir?”

“Is there a reason you decided to suckle your nightly milk later, instead of first?”

I raised my head so I could look him in the eye. I thought I had answered that question already, but perhaps he didn’t believe what I’d said. “I want him to spend the night with us,” I said again. “If he goes off to the women after, you know he’ll go back to his own tent rather than disturb us.”

Roichal caught my mouth in a kiss, coaxing sounds from my throat and drinking them in greedily. When he pulled back, he said, “That is the truth, yet I sense that is not the whole truth.”

I did not know if he was merely very good at reading me, or if the spell that made me a whoreslave allowed whoever I was submissive to the ability to know if I were hiding something. “Sir,” I began, “I asked on the field marshal’s behalf, as well.”

“Did you, now?”

“Yes, Sir. He wants very much to spend the night, every night, alongside us, but he will not ask for himself.”

“So you have taken it upon yourself to ask for him?”

“Yes, Sir. Is—” I paused as he ran a finger along my lips as if testing their plumpness. “Is that wrong?”

“He has told you this?”

“No, Sir. I just know it.”

“Ah.” He kissed me again. “No, Page, that is not wrong. But it is something for me to think on.” He ran his finger over my then wet lips and I felt a slight tremor go through him. Was he thinking of allowing me to suckle his milk after all?

“Sir?” was all the question I could allow myself.

His voice was surprisingly soft for such a gruff man, much like his touch. “I see the doubts churning in you, through the windows of your eyes,” he said. “Do you doubt I find you pleasing?”

“No, Sir.” My voice was a whisper.

“Do you doubt I will protect you from any threat?”

I was surprised he would ask that, but I did not doubt it in the least. “No, Sir.”

He pressed a soft kiss against my temple. “Then I will not concern myself over the other doubts swirling in you, Page. I know there are secrets you cannot divulge. And if you doubt yourself, well… I do not.”

I was emboldened by his words and climbed astride his lap, my arms around his neck at first and my cock pressed between my own stomach and the cloth of his jacket. Then I undid the buttons and he did not object. Soon his only clothing was the swaddling he had wrapped around his waist, groin, and privates.

I rubbed the underside of my cock gently up and down the stripe of hair that ran from his bellybutton over the curve of his belly and disappeared below. My breath caught as I found the sensation far more arousing than I had expected to. Perhaps it was merely that it was his bare skin against mine and that alone was a thrill.

“Very good, Page,” he whispered. “You are at your best, at your most perfect, when you are so ripe for the plucking.”

“Does it please you to see me thus?” I asked, even though that was surely what he had just said.

“Aye. Balanced on the sword’s edge of lust.” He stole a quick kiss from my lips, then settled his hands on my hips, not to guide me but as if to feel the strain in my body as I teased myself. “When you spill tonight, Page,” he said, “what would you like? Into Marksin’s mouth again? Or something else? I was quite serious about a camp follower for you, you know, if you would like.”

I shook my head, drawing a ragged breath. “N-no, Sir, please. I… I would prefer only you and…” My throat closed with emotion suddenly as I realized I was about to lie egregiously. I had been about to say “the field marshal” but of course my truest preference of all would have been Jorin. I swallowed the sudden tears that wanted to well up and choke me, turning them into a guttural moan as the general pulled me by my buttocks and trapped my throbbing cock between our bellies. “…and the company of men who can be trusted,” I finished, for certainly that was true enough.

“How much do you trust me?” he asked then, nipping at my ear.

“Completely, Sir,” I answered without hesitation.

I felt another tremor of lust go through him. “Marksin might be some time yet,” he continued. “Would you feel it right for me to keep you on edge like this until he returned? Or should I allow you some relief now, and then tease you until you are begging for release again later?”

I sucked in a breath. “If by relief now you mean allowing me to spill, then, no, Sir, I feel it would be right to wait. But of course, what is right is determined by your orders. I would… I would gladly spill for you if you wished.”

His chuckle was low. “What else might I have meant by relief?”

“Oh. Just, allowing me to subside for a bit.”

His laugh brightened. “You sound positively disappointed by the prospect.”

“Well…” I pressed my hot cheek against his shoulder. “Perhaps. After all, you have just told me you like me best when I am on the edge.”

He took me by the chin so that he could look me in the eye. “It is also because you like it best when you are on edge that you are so beautiful, Page. Like a flower or fruit still dewy in the rising sun, caught forever in that moment, before falling from the bush.”

“Yes, Sir,” I agreed.

“Lie down, my Page,” he said, shifting me from his lap. He stood and bade me lie on my back on the pallet and lift my arms above my head. He lay a cloth over my eyes, then bound my hands somehow, and then my ankles.

Then something very soft and slight ran up the inside of my thigh.

“It is my flywhisk,” he murmured. A fine, long stalk of stiff, braided leather with several inches of horsehair at the end. He used it to brush the stinging flies from his horse’s flanks when the horse’s own tail was prepared for battle.

I felt the feathery touch up my legs several times, then the dewdrop that fell from my cock to my stomach as he applied it to my milksacks. Then suddenly—whisk—and the tails struck the inside of my thigh. I made a soft sound myself, of surprise. It did not hurt, only the very lightest of momentary stinging sensations, like a bit of sand in a gust of breeze, and then it was gone.

But then I felt it on my other thigh. Whisk whisk. And working ever closer to my milksacks. Whisk whisk whisk.

When he reached my milksacks I could not help but struggle as the stinging sensation intensified with each swat.

“Do you trust me, Page?” he asked again.

It took me a moment to find my voice. “Y-Yes, Sir.”

“Then try to lie still. If you move too much I will miss my mark and cause you unwanted pain.”

“Oh. Yes, Sir.” I tried to take a deep breath, to still myself, and all I managed was to stiffen as he chose that moment to begin whipping my cock itself.

After that had gone on for quite a while, he asked me in a quiet voice. “And Page, may I trust you to keep from screaming? Or shall I gag you?”

“Um…” I wasn’t sure how to answer. I wanted to prove myself, but I also did not want to bring a sentry running at an inopportune moment. “I… I will try to be good, Sir.”

“Oh, Page,” he said, his voice much closer to my ear now. “You are very, very good.” And then he caught my scream in his mouth as he kissed me and took a firm grip on my cock at the same moment. He was pumping his hand up and down furiously, making me see dark clouds roil behind my eyelids, but I could not come no matter how much he did, not until he gave the word.

When he pulled back, he let my cock go, and I found myself gasping, almost sobbing.

Perhaps no “almost” is necessary. He kissed away a few tears. “Very good.” He slid the cloth over my eyes away, and then propped a pillow under my head, so I was looking down my outstretched body. My thighs were pink and my cock quite red—as usual.

“Watch this time,” he said, and started again from just the caress of the horsehair up the insides of my thighs.

He had to admonish me to keep watching when he started whipping my cock and so I did, holding in a breath to make sure I held in the cry that wanted to escape.

This time he soothed me with his mouth and tongue, nearly everywhere the flywhisk had touched, if it can be called soothing when my cock twitched inside his mouth like a mad thing, trying and trying and trying to spill.

At last he let me free of my bonds, and held me close for a while, rocking me gently and murmuring praise. Then he put the flywhisk into my hand. “When the field general returns,” he said, “you shall demonstrate what you’ve learned.”

“Sir?”

“I will guide you,” he said. “But let it be your hand that holds the whisk.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He chuckled. “If I am right, and if you do well, perhaps the field marshal shall give you quite a meal tonight in spite of his earlier exertions.”

“I don’t wish to hurt him.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Well, no,” I admitted. “The sensation is too soft, too slight to feel like pain. It only hurts if you count the pain of not being able to come.”

“Would you have come from just the whisk without the magic that holds you back?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. Undoubtedly,” I said, and I felt that tremor run through him a third time, rendering him speechless.

We both looked toward the entry flap as we heard Marksin call out his approach. He entered to find us both staring at him like hungry cats.

He said not a word as he doffed his boots and jacket and then sank gracefully to his knees in front of us.

* * *

Prefer reading on paper? You can mail order the finished books of The Prince’s Boy, Volumes One and Two, right now and have them within days! Order direct from Amazon, of use the coupon code UU3ULDAN to get 20% off the cover price if you purchase one or both volumes from Createspace! (Volume one | Volume 2)

About the author: Cecilia Tan is the award-winning author of many erotic books and stories and the founder of Circlet Press.